Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Michael Shepherd (9/20/2005 6:04:00 PM) Post reply

    Since Diane di Prima says exactly what Dan Scheider evidently believes in despite his sneer, i.e. speaking truth and writing something fresh, perhaps we could have an example of her better (!) poetry posted here to judge from?

  • Lamont Palmer (9/20/2005 3:25:00 PM) Post reply

    Heres an interesting take on Di Prima by Dan Schneider...a great critic, imho.


    ‘I think the poet is the last person who is still speaking the truth when no one else dares to. I think the poet is the first person to begin the shaping and visioning of the new forms and the new consciousness when no one else has begun to sense it; I think these are two of the most essential human functions’ -Diane Di Prima

    Thus another TOP essay starts- & for the 1st time, I believe, with an epigraph! Woo-hoo! You just know this TOP is gonna be a humdinger when it starts off with a quote this utterly insipid. That & the fact that the titular poem is almost emblemic for the Beatnik nonsense that was perpetrated last century &- well- hold on, boys & girls!
    OK, the central facts of DDP’s life: she was 1 of the 2 well-known Beatnik babes. Anne Waldman was the ‘sexy’ Beatnik babe & DDP was the ‘serious’ Beatnik babe. So serious, in fact, that she was dubbed a Poet Priestess, & other such nonsense terms by the boys in the gang, over a decade before the Flower Power crap of the late 1960s. Yet,1 has to credit DDP for changing with the times- something few of the Beatniks did. She has her own website- http: //dianediprima.com/-& you can even email her- ddiprima@earthlink.net. Nonetheless, there is virtually nothing of worth that nearly 50 years of writing has produced. Her ‘status’ as a Beatnik babe will long outlast her status as a ‘poet’. But, before I delve too deeply in to the mystery of why DDP is a bad poet, let’s take a look at DDP’s life, culled from an online bio.

  • Michael Shepherd (9/20/2005 7:22:00 AM) Post reply

    Security Express has just battered on my door with the 1993 Princeton Encyclopaedia, from which you can bone up on Australian poetry (2 pp, lotsa names)) , Canadian poetry (2pp each on Anglophone and Francophone) , Enjambment (2 pp) and Trope, no entry, comes under Figure...

    Don't leave home without it...

  • Jerry Hughes (9/20/2005 12:17:00 AM) Post reply

    Movers and Shakers, there seems to be scant regard for discussion on our better know Australia poets in this forum. Bruce Dawe, is arguably one of our finest, as is Les Murray, to name but two. Call me parochial if you wish, but talent is talent in any language. Here is a small example of Bruce Dawe's work that must be acknowledged for what it is, examplary. Any takers?

    soliloquy for one dead

    Ah, no Joe, you never knew
    the whole of it, the whistling
    which is only the wind in the chimney's
    smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy
    path that are always somebody else's.
    I think of your limbs down there, softly
    becoming mineral, the life of grasses,
    and the old love of you thrusts the tears
    up into my eyes, with the family aware
    and looking somewhere else.
    Sometimes when summer is over the land,
    when the heat quickens the deaf timbers,
    and birds are thick in the plums again,
    my heart sickens, Joe, calling
    for the water of your voice and the gone
    agony of your nearness. I try hard
    to forget, saying: If God wills,
    it must be so, because of
    His goodness, because-
    but the grasshopper memory leaps
    in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe,
    you never knew the whole of it...

  • Max Reif (9/18/2005 2:10:00 PM) Post reply

    I opened Daniel Ladinsky's 'The Gift', his 'renderings' of Hafiz, at random, after asking 'What poem shall I post to Poemhunter now? ' (In Iran, the Divan of Hafiz' poetry is used as an oracle in that way.) Here is what I got:

    STOP CALLING ME A
    PREGNANT WOMAN

    My Master once entered a phase
    That whenever I would see him
    He would say,

    'Hafiz,
    How did you ever become a pregnant woman? '

    And I would reply,

    'Dear Attar,
    You must be speaking the truth,
    But all of what you say is a mystery to me.'

    Many months passed in his blessed company.
    But one day I lost my patience
    Upon hearing that odd refrain
    And blurted out,

    'Stop calling me a pregnant woman! '

    And Attar replied,
    'Someday, my sweet Hafiz,
    All the nonsense in your brain will dry up
    Like a stagnant pool of water
    Beneath the sun,

    Though if you want to know the Truth
    I can so clearly see that God has made love with you
    And the whole universe is germinating
    Inside your belly

    And wonderful words,
    Such enlightening words
    Will take birth from you

    And be cradeled against thousands
    Of hearts.'

    (note: Ladinsky centers his lines on the page. I don't know how to do that with PH software.)

  • Max Reif (9/18/2005 9:20:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Poems often have something to do with the subject of identity. Here's a chilling article from CNN, about the way what used to be 'science fiction' is becoming medical option in our age. It's about a doctor who's ready to perform a 'face transplant'-and the possible physical and ethical consequences.
    (It's not just an 'extreme make-over'. The candidates are people whose faces have been so disfigured by wounds, etc. There are powerful consequences to having 'someone elses face'.

    www.cnn.com/2005/HEALTH/09/17/face.transplant.ap/index.html

    Replies for this message:
    • Michael Shepherd (9/18/2005 9:30:00 AM) Post reply

      ...and then when we've all bought ourselves silky-tight 'ideal',2-D faces, TV will call for 'expressive' faces with lines and muscles and things, and face-drops will become the cutting-edge (hah) f ... more

  • Michael Shepherd (9/18/2005 4:44:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Here's another poem by Faiz not so far from Rilke's 'solitude':

    Loneliness like a good, old friend
    visits my house to pour wine in the evening.
    And we sit together, waiting for the moon,
    and for your face to sparkle in every shadow.

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    To read all of 2 replies click here
  • Jerry Hughes (9/18/2005 12:20:00 AM) Post reply

    Greetings movers and shakers, I'd like to introduce all of you to the Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz,1911-1984. I am fortunate to have a volume of his work translated by, Dr Estelle Dryland. Here's a sample, enjoy:

    IN MEMORY OF MAKHDOOM

    'All night long your memory haunts me'

    All night long
    silvern moomlight
    garnishes my
    sorrow.
    Time burns, then
    darkens as the
    mourning
    candle
    flickers
    and
    dies.
    All night long your memory
    honed by piquant
    ambrosial
    night.
    All night long your
    wraith-like
    spectre, haunting
    chimercal
    fancy.
    A message borne on the
    sweet breath of
    sunrise imparts
    its story to
    boughs
    blushed
    with rose.
    A door chain taps
    remembering one
    who used to reply.
    All night long
    pervaded by
    longing,
    shored
    by hope,
    my heart
    seeks
    to find
    its Beloved.

  • Max Reif (9/17/2005 8:29:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I haven't followed all the Rilke discussion, but here's a powerful piece of his prose.


    THE UNNATURAL WILL TO ART*
    by Ranier Maria Rilke

    Do not expect me to talk about my interior effort, -I must be silent on that score; it would be unwise to render account, even to myself, of all the changes of fortune I shall have to undergo in my struggle towards concentration. This reversal of all one's forces, this changed direction of soul can never be accomplished without a number of crises; most artists avoid it by means of diversions, but that is just why they never again succeed in touching their center of production, from wich they started at the moment of their purest impulse. Always when you begin to work you must recreate this first innocence, you must return to the ingenuous place where the Angel discovered you when he brought you the first binding message; you must find once more the couch behind the briars where you were then asleep; this time you will not sleep there; you will have to pray and groan, -no matter: if the Angel deigns to appear, it will be because you have convinced him, not by tears but by your humble resolve to be always beginning-to be a Beginner!
    Oh, Dear, how many times in my life-and never so much as now-have I told myself that Art, as I conceive it, is a movement contrary to nature. No doubt God never foresaw that any one of us would turn inwards upon himself in that way, which can only be permitted to the Saint because he seeks to beseige his God by attacking him from this unexpected and badly defended quarter. But for the rest of us, whom do we approach when we turn our back on events, on our future even, in order to throw ourselves into the abyss of our being, which would engulf us were it not for the sort of trustfulness that we bring to it, and which seems stronger even than the gravitation of our nature? If the meaning of sacrifice is that the moment of greatest danger coincides with that when one is saved, then certainly nothing resembles sacrifice more than this terrible will to Art. How tenacious it is, how insensate! All that the rest forget in order to make their life possible, we are always bent on discovering, on magnifying even; it is we who are the real awakeners of our monsters, to which we are not hostile enough to become their conquerors; for in a certain sense we are at one with them; it is they, the monsters, that hold the surplus strength which is indispensable to those that most surpass themselves. Unless one assigns to the act of victory a mysterious and far deeper meaning, it is not for us to consider ourselves the tamers of our internal lions. But suddenly we feel ourselves walking beside them, as in a Triumph, without being able to remember the exact moment when this inconceivable reconciliation took place (bridge barely curved that connects the terrible with the tender...) .
    ___
    *Letter,1920, from LETTERS TO MERLINE.
    excerpted in THE MODERN TRADITION, Ellman and Fiedelson, editors, Oxford University Press,1965.

    Replies for this message:
    • Michael Shepherd (9/18/2005 4:30:00 AM) Post reply

      A century later, when we know so much more of - or have access to - other cultures, we might say, Rilke is making heavy weather of what comes quite naturally to a Chinese, Hindu, Sufi, or other mystic ... more

  • Herbert Nehrlich1 (9/17/2005 7:32:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Here is a bit of Rilke, one version.
    IV. Sonett
    O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt.
    Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls
    - sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals,
    bis in des stillen Blickes Licht - geliebt.

    Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie's liebten, ward
    ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum.
    Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,
    erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum

    zu sein. Sie nährten es mit keinem Korn,
    nur immer mit der Möglichkeit, es sei.
    Und die gab solche Stärke an das Tier,

    daß es aus sich ein Stirnhorn trieb. Ein Horn.
    Zu einer Jungfrau kam es weiß herbei -
    und war im Silber-Spiegel und in ihr.


    Ah, here it is, the creature without life
    They could not know but did just to be sure
    Admire, love, its features so alive
    Into the depth of stillness to endure
    Though it was not an animal to love
    Yet had become one in that inner room
    Where it stood out to raise its head above
    Itself, she nourished it not with a single corn
    But always with the thought that it could be
    And thus a strength formidable defied all doom
    To grow from deep within its forehead’s own
    A growth into its world, a unicorn.
    Within the silver mirror it was plain to see
    White, inside the maiden it had grown.

    Replies for this message:
    • Michael Shepherd (9/18/2005 5:16:00 AM) Post reply

      you hit on the poem that launched my 'unicorn' series, remembered after 50 years...

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